The man ignored the hint of sarcasm. "Yes—I think I can." His head was slightly bowed, and Patty saw that it was with an effort he continued: "That is, I don't know if I can make you see it like I do. It's awful real to me—an' plain. Miss Sinclair, I can't make any fine speeches like they do in books. I wouldn't if I could—it ain't my way. I love you more than I could tell you if I knew all the words in the language, an' how to fit 'em together. I loved you that day I first saw you—back there on the divide at Lost Creek. You was afraid of me, an' you wouldn't show it, an' you wouldn't own up that you was lost—'til I'd made the play of goin' off an' leavin' you. An' I've loved you every minute since—an' every minute since, I've fought against lovin' you. But, it's no use. The more I fight it, the stronger it gets. It's stronger than I am. I can't down it. It's the first time I ever ran up against anything I couldn't whip." Again he paused. Patty advanced a step, and her eyes glowed softly as they rested upon the form that stood in her doorway silhouetted against the after-glow. She saw Buck rub his velvet nose affectionately up and down the man's sleeve, and into her heart leaped a great longing for this man who, with the unconscious dignity of the vast open places upon him, had told her so earnestly of his love. She opened her lips to speak but there was a great lump in her throat, and no words came.
"That's why," he continued, "I know it ain't just a flash in the pan—this love of mine ain't. All summer I've watched you, an' the hardest thing I ever had to do was to set back an' let you play a lone hand against the worst devil that ever showed his face in the hills. But the way things stacked up, I had to. You had me sized up for the one that was campin' on your trail, an' anything I'd have done would have played into Bethune's hand. I know I ain't fit for you—no man is. But, I'll always do the best I know how by you—an' I'll always love you. As for the rest of it, I never saved any money. I know there's gold here in the hills, an' I've spent years huntin' it. I'll find it, too—sometime. But, I ain't exactly a pauper, either. I've got my two hands, an' I've got a contract with Old Man Samuelson to winter his cattle. I didn't want to do it first, but the figure he named was about twice what I thought the job was worth. I told him so right out, an' he kind of laughed an' said maybe I'd need it all, an' anyhow, them cattle was all grade Herefords, an' was worth more to winter than common dogies. So, you see, we could winter through, all right, an' next summer, we could prospect together. The gold's here, somewhere—your dad knew it—an' I know it."
Receiving no answering pat, the buckskin left off his nuzzling of the man's sleeve, and turned from the doorway. As he did so the brown leather jug scraped lightly against the jamb. The girl's eyes flew to the jug, and swiftly back to the man who stood framed in the doorway. She loved him! For days and days she had known that she loved him, and for days and nights her thoughts had been mostly of him—this unsmiling knight of the saddle—her "guardian devil of the hills." Without exception, the people whose regard was worth having respected him, and liked him, even though they deplored his refusal to accept steady work. They're just like the people back home, she thought. They have no imagination. To their minds the cowpuncher who draws his forty dollars a month, year in and year out, is in some manner more dependable than the man whose imagination and love of the boundless open lead him to stake his time against millions. What do they know of the joys and the despairs of uncertainty? In a measure they, too, love the plains and the hills—but their love of the open is inextricably interwoven with their preconceived ideas of conduct. But, Vil Holland is bound by no such convention; his "outfit," a pack horse to carry it, and his home—all outdoors! Her father had imagination, and year after year, in the face of the taunts and jibes of his small town neighbors, he had steadfastly allowed his imagination full sway, and at last—he had won. She had adored her father from whom she had inherited her love of the wild. But—there was the jug! Always her thoughts of Vil Holland had led up to that brown leather jug until she had come to hate it with an unreasoning hatred.
"I see you have not forgotten your jug."
"No, I got it filled in town." The man's reply was casual, as he would have mentioned his gloves, or his hat.
"You said you had never run up against anything you couldn't whip, except—except——"
"Yes, except my love for you. That's right—an' I never expect to."
"How about that jug? Can you whip that?"
"Why, yes, I could. If there was any need. I never tried it."
"Suppose you try it for a while, and see."